


Goodbye Yellow Brick Road

by The_Happy_Cricket



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Slow Burn, Substance Abuse, Widowed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:48:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23354203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Happy_Cricket/pseuds/The_Happy_Cricket
Summary: Recently widowed and riddled with anxiety, Meg Murray moves to Hawkins to care for her late husband's parents and inherit their family farm. Her goals? To protect and aid her ailing in-laws. To discover Joey's hometown in hopes of reconnecting with his essence. To keep the panic from spreading like wildfire within. She meets the local sheriff and realizes their struggles are not so different. As their bond grows, a new goal surfaces: to keep herself from handing a broken man her broken heart.Set before ST1. Around 1981.
Relationships: Jim "Chief" Hopper/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 9





	1. Chapter One: Not In Kansas Anymore

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written anything in forever, so please offer grace. I love me some Hop, and I've had this story in the recesses of my overworked brain for such a long time. About time I release it to the masses! I hope it intrigues you enough to stick with me on this journey. Enjoy!

Jim was only two sips into his coffee, three puffs into his Camel, and zero interruptions into his shift when a phone call from the front desk disrupted his precious peace. 

"Yeah?" He asked exasperatedly, silently willing whatever nuisance about to be brought to his attention would somehow resolve itself. His head was pounding from what felt like a week long hangover, and the last thing he wanted to do was get called out into the bright June sunshine. 

"There's an alleged break-in over at the Murrays' house on 2nd Street," came Flo's reply. "Twila Walters says there's a strange truck pulled into the driveway, and the front door is wide open."

With an irritated sigh, Jim massaged the bridge of his nose and asked, "Doesn't this seem like a task for someone a little lower on the food chain, Flo?"

"You're the only one available, Hop." 

"What? Where's Powell?"

"Took the day off for a family reunion." 

Jim grunted. "Callahan?"

"Security at the junior varsity baseball game today," responded Flo, nearly matching Jim's frustration at this point. 

"What about--"

"Just take an aspirin, throw on some sunglasses, and do a drive-by. I'm sure Twila's just being nosy," Flo interrupted before Jim could volunteer another officer. 

With a click, his secretary was gone. Some days he truly wondered if he should just hand Flo the badge and let her reign supreme. Clenching his jaw at the impertinence, he took a long swig of tepid coffee and grabbed his keys. 

As he passed Flo on the way out, she added, "Oh, and Jeanie Blevins left a message for you about twenty minutes ago."

Jim stopped dead in his tracks. At the mention of the name, images from the night before sprang to mind: an Aquanet-solidified ginger perm, white stilettos, barely there lingerie, and lots of Jose Cuervo. Without looking behind him, he asked, "Oh yeah? What'd she say?"

"She said next time your non-committal ass decides to stay over, maybe you could close the door behind you so her three cats don't get loose in the neighborhood." The unlikely coupling of disdain and amusement in Flo's voice was enough for Jim to absorb her opinion on his extracurricular life, but he'd left any ounce of shame over his behaviors at the door a long time ago. No one in Hawkins expected anything less from Jim Hopper.

He cleared his throat, grabbed his hat off the coat rack, and mumbled, "Top notch work, Florence. Glad to have you on the force."

The drive over to 2nd Street was fairly short; the house in question was in a neighborhood only three blocks from the station. It belonged to Joe and Peg Murray, an elderly couple whose son had went to grade school with Jim. Joey, or Little Joe, Murray was a stand-up kid who blended in with any crowd he joined. Jim could recall a couple of parties where he and Joey had hung out, perhaps a few group dates at the bowling alley or the soda shop. He'd always liked the guy and was happy for him when he caught news of Joey's success as a journalist in Chicago. But as most childhood friendships go, they hadn't spoken in decades. 

As Jim pulled up to the Murray household, it appeared as though Twila was correct. Instead of Joe's old Buick there was a pale yellow '69 Chevy C/K pickup, the bed half-filled with furniture. The front door to the little brick house was indeed open, but it seemed to be propped and not broken into. Popping a Tuinal discreetly before parking his cruiser on the curb, Jim made his way up the sidewalk and onto the front porch.

"Hello?" he called into the house as he gave the door a half-assed knock with the back of his knuckles. 

Suddenly, a soft voice came from behind him on the porch. "Hey. Can I help you?" 

Jim turned around to meet eyes with a pretty petite woman with messy brown curls spilling out of her red ball cap. Her smile was genuine but her stance was visibly uneasy as she recognized his uniform. 

Jim reached out to shake her hand. "Morning, ma'am. I'm Chief Hopper with Hawkins PD. We received a phone call from a neighbor concerned that this home was being broken into." 

Any evidence of worry melted from the woman's face as she chuckled at his words and received Jim's shake firmly. 

"Wow, I'm here but one hour and already caught up in small town drama," she mused, slightly marveling in the way Jim's large hand dwarfed her own. "I swear I'm not ransacking the place. This house belongs to my in-laws, the Murrays. I'm just moving some things in."

"You're married to Joey, then?" Jim asked curiously. "I didn't know he was back in town."

The woman's smile faltered for a moment as she recoiled from Jim's grasp, and he immediately sensed her shift in mood. 

She scratched the back of her neck uncomfortably and replied, "Yeah, he actually passed away a couple months back."

Jim's stomach dropped at the news, and his face must have shown it because the woman was quick to recover the conversation. 

"So it's just me. I'm his wife, Margaret." Before Jim could comment, she smirked and rolled her eyes. "I know. Same name as his mom. Bizarre, right? I always wondered what that said about Joe's untapped psyche."

"I'm sorry to hear that, Mrs. Murray," Jim offered, taking off his hat out of respect. 

"Please, call me Meg. Mrs. Murray's my mother-in-law," she winked. 

Jim gave a halfhearted smile at her corny joke but tried not to let it betray his condolence. Upon looking into Meg's earthy green eyes, he saw something familiar that he himself had buried many years ago. The lingering gravity of loss. Before he could analyze further, Meg broke him from his thoughts by heading back towards her truck. 

"Well, I don't mean to be rude, but I've gotta get the rest of my junk in before my in-laws need picked up from their appointments. Big Joe insists on taking me out to his favorite spot for lunch." 

Jim smiled as he trailed behind. "That'll be Benny's. The Murrays are the diner's most faithful patrons." 

"That's what I've heard! Any recommendations?" Meg asked, climbing into the bed of the Chevy. 

"Onesto Burger," the man replied without a beat. "Take the best burger you'll ever have and throw a fried egg on top. It's a hangover miracle cure."

Meg raised a curious brow. "Alright, you've piqued my interest. Thanks for the tip." She went to grab a dining chair when Jim offered his hand. On any other morning, he probably wouldn't feel obliged to help. Especially with a pounding head. But the woman was clearly dealing with some heavy stuff, much of which he could identify with. She was also very pretty, and Jim figured he could get past the headache quicker staring at a beautiful woman instead of a mountain of paperwork back in his office.

"Want a hand?" he offered. 

"You tellin' me the chief of police doesn't have anything better to do?" Meg pondered, placing the chair in Jim's arms gratefully. "I have a feeling I'm not in Chicago anymore."

"I'd wager Hawkins sees a few more slow days than the Windy City," Jim said, taking a second chair with ease. "Where would you like these?"

"Dining room, if you would. Thank you, Chief." 

Uncharacteristically happy to oblige, he carried them up to the house and set them next to the others in the empty dining room. Looking around, he noticed the walls were barren of any pictures or art. No curtains or blinds covered the windows, and the kitchen was empty of any appliances. It appeared as if no one had been living here at all.

When Meg entered with a nightstand, Jim met her at the door to relieve her from her bearings. She smiled and nodded him away. 

"Don't worry, I've got it," she assured him with a confident smile. "But thank you." 

"You said your in-laws live here?" Jim asked curiously.

Setting down the piece of furniture, Meg replied, "They did when Joey was growing up. After he moved out, they went to live with Peg's parents to help take care of their farm. That's where they've been living for the past twenty years or so, out on the old Vanderbilt farm on Route 172. They used to rent this house out till...well, now I guess." 

"Ah, that's right. The Vanderbilt farm," Jim recalled. "Back in high school, I could make a quick buck helping Little Joe clean stalls over there. It was a beautiful piece of land." 

"It still is. I know Joe and Peg are going to miss it."

Jim frowned. "Are they selling it?"

"No, they just can't maintain it anymore. Not at their age and what with Joe's Parkinson's. They're moving back here, and I'm going to split time between here and there so I can take care of both them and the farm." 

Jim had to hand it to Meg: that sounded like an awful lot to deal with on top of losing her husband. He knew what it was like trying to stay engaged in his career and simultaneously foster an already crumbling marriage after Sara's passing, and he was clearly unable to do both. Thank God for alcohol, right?

"Yeah, you'll probably have to point me in the direction of the town watering hole pretty soon," Meg responded to what Jim had misjudged as an inner thought. "I'll be needing it."

There was an awkward silence for a beat or two before Jim asked, "Well, is there anything else I can help you with?"

Clapping the dust off of her hands, Meg shook her curls and said, "Can't say that there is."

"You sure? Got an awful lot of unfinished paperwork back at the station I'd be sincerely overjoyed to put off for ya." He also was a tinge uneasy about any recent phone calls Flo may have received from his latest conquests in the time that he'd been gone.

"You already earned your 'Help a Widow' badge, boy scout," Meg joked as she crossed her arms over her chest. "At ease."

Jim grinned and made his way past her to the front door, turning around to face her with a hand extended. He reveled in how such a small, soft hand could have a such a firm shake. Close enough to catch her scent, he noted that her perfume was an unusual pairing of freshly mowed lawn and clean laundry. Her skin was dewy and nearly perfect aside from some laugh lines at the corners of her eyes. But those eyes were what captivated him the most. Springtime's first green irises with gold rings around the pupil. They managed to stand out even under the shadowing bill of her cap.

"Thanks for all your help, Chief," Meg told him kindly after breaking the handshake to open the screen door for him.

"All in a day's work," Jim replied as he left, immediately groaning on the inside at his cliche response. "Take care, ma'am." 

The slight spring in his step as he headed back to the Blazer was a surprise for sure. He almost turned around to remind her of the station's phone number in case she needed anything else, but he stopped himself from looking like more of an idiot than he already had. He got into the vehicle, shut the door, and peeked a glance at the house as he turned the key. 

Meg stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame in a way that showed off her shapely silhouette. She gave a small wave as he began to pull away, so he returned it with a sharp nod and headed back to the station. 

Letting out a sigh, he guiltily mulled over the idea of Meg Murray pressed up against him, those soft but strong hands exploring the territory that was his body with the fervor of a conquistador, but chastised himself for being such a dick. The last thing that poor woman needed was a pill-popping philanderer aiming to bed her in her time of grief, and the last thing his image needed was another accusation of being a man whore. 

Fiddling in his pocket for another pill, Jim decided then and there to put Meg Murray out of mind. No good would come of any of it. Little Joe had been a friend to him in the past, and the idea of besmirching his lonely albeit stunning wife was enough to disappoint even him. In fact, a month would pass before Jim would even see her again, enough time for him to mess around with a few other local ladies and nearly forget about the pretty green-eyed woman with the yellow truck. That is, until one Tuesday at lunchtime when he would find his pal Benny flirting with her in the diner...


	2. Chapter 2: Dorothy Lands in Oz

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While moving some furniture into the Murrays' new living space, Meg tries to cope with her ever growing anxiety and has her first run-in with the law.

A warm summer breeze slipped in slow like a secret, sending the scent of the neighbor's cherry blossoms sailing through the quiet house. The sunshine streams through the trees performed like shadow puppets on the dusty hardwood floor, and Meg quietly watched the shapes transform from her seated position in her father-in-law's old rocking chair. The setting was simple, mundane even, and would have been comfortable for any normal person.

So why did she feel like the walls were closing in? Panic. Ah, yes. That most unwelcome house guest was taking up residence in her chest without warning, sending waves of unease into every nerve and cell. Taking the deepest breath her body would allow, Meg closed her eyes and gripped the armrests firmly.

"The breeze. The flowers. The sunlight," she murmured aloud, recalling what she could feel, smell, and see--a calming exercise Joey had turned her onto years ago. "Taste and sound. Let's work on that, shall we?"

Within moments, the turn table had been dusted off and Hank Williams wailed his song of woe in a corner of the living room. " _A house without love is not a home...._ "

"Cheeky," Meg shot bitterly, the irony of the lyrics certainly not lost on her one bit. She immediately made her way to the kitchen, rummaging through the worn red cooler she was passing off as a fridge for a disappointingly warm bottle of Budweiser. With a huff, she popped the top off using the counter top as leverage and took a long pull.

"Hank and beer," she finished to no one in particular. Her technique had been executed, albeit in a less than orthodox manner, though the discomfort lingered in her panic's wake. The anxiety was getting worse. She originally thought maybe coming to Joey's hometown would be cathartic; she would visit his old stomping grounds, hear some uplifting stories from childhood friends, and emerge with a rekindled connection to her late husband. Clearly she had watched too many of those made-for-TV movies because being in Hawkins was less of an epiphany and more of a nightmare.

Finishing off the beer at a much too quick pace, Meg left the kitchen and ended up at the foot of the staircase. Her eyes traveled upward, towards the second floor of the bungalow where Joey's old bedroom had been. The idea of going up there made the pressure resurface in her chest. She placed the palm of her hand there as if to suppress the racing of her heart and took a deep breath in.

" _No matter where our footsteps wander_

_I know we'll both be all alone_

_With the pride that came between us_

_A house without love is not a home.._."

"Oh, can it, Hank." Meg grimly switched the record off and made her way outside to finish the task at hand.

The sun was quite bright today. Almost irritatingly so, considering how gloomy she felt inside, so she reached into the front seat of her Chevy to grab a pair of sunglasses. All she could find was a hat collecting dust on the dashboard. It was Joey's Indiana University ball cap, the red one with a little fraying on the bill. It had been his favorite to wear and her favorite to steal. She pulled it over her heat-frizzed curls and slammed the door shut.

When she climbed out of the truck, she saw a police vehicle parked in front of the house. Frowning in confusion, she decided to investigate. There at the front door was a broad-shouldered officer wearing a brown open road and an exhausted expression.

"Hey. Can I help you?" Meg asked, climbing the stairs to the porch.

The man turned around to face her. Yes, he looked weary, but he was handsome in a rugged, cowboy type way. He was a good deal taller than her with a lineman's build, and the farm girl in her suspected he'd be excellent at baling hay. His strong jaw was covered by a dark beard, and his crystalline blue eyes were stark under the brim of his hat.

Jim introduced himself to her in the way you would expect from a man of the law. Firm but friendly with an air of something else. Disinterest, maybe? Truth be told, the longer she spent with the man, the more she wondered if he was high or something. He looked like he hadn't slept a wink in days, he smelled of tobacco and beer, and his slightly wrinkled uniform suggested he wasn't necessarily concerned with appearances.

They shook hands, and Meg couldn't help but notice how large his palm was. His long, thick fingers made her feel like she was a small child holding hands with a parent. She was struck with a realization: Jim was probably the first person she'd shaken hands with since Joey's funeral. Many people had offered their condolences to her through the strange cultural exchange of handshakes ( _why was that the practice, anyhow?_ ) that day. So many, in fact, that she had lost count. She knew it was meant to be a compassionate gesture, but each one felt cold and lifeless simply because they didn't belong to the one person whose hand fit perfectly in hers.

Joey was not a big man by any means, and therefore he had hands not much larger than Meg's. So when Jim's hand engulfed hers, her surprise was written on her face. It almost made her laugh, but she held back as she stated her case to the investigative chief.

They spoke for a while, Meg inevitably explaining the reason for her stay in Hawkins, and she accepted Jim's sympathies like she did with everyone. Somehow, though, the expression on his face spoke volumes more than his words. Something told her that perhaps he had experience in her situation. It was not so much a look of pity than that of empathy.

He went on to inform her about the restaurant Big Joe frequented.

"Onesto Burger. Take the best burger you'll ever have and throw a fried egg on top. It's a hangover miracle cure," he insisted with more enthusiasm than she had seen from him yet. There was her confirmation! Maybe not blitzed now, but he certainly was last night. She held no judgment there. How could she? She'd just tried to drown her anxiety in lukewarm beer moments ago.

Before heading back to the station, Jim kindly offered a helping hand in bringing the last of the furniture. Like any cop would, he probed a little further into her big move, and she bit. He clearly knew Joey and his family at one point in time, so she didn't feel like he was being nosy.

"Thank God for alcohol, right?" Jim mumbled so quietly, Meg almost thought he was talking to himself.

"Yeah, you’ll probably have to point me in the direction of the town watering hole pretty soon. I’ll be needing it," she replied, rubbing her crossed arms with both hands.

They both fell silent for a few moments before Jim offered his services again. Meg playfully declined and thanked him for the assistance with yet another handshake. This time she let it linger a bit longer and stronger, and her stomach slightly flipped at the ounce of connection she felt with his contact. That was certainly new.

"Thanks for your help, Chief," said Meg, opening the door for him.

"All in a day's work," he replied. At this, she nearly had to bite her tongue from giggling. She didn't know what was funnier: the generic civil servant line or the look of utter regret on his face. They exchanged goodbyes and he left, evidently trying to appear serious and collected as he returned her wave with a jerk of his head from his moving car.

Meg sighed and stood in the doorway for a moment, allowing the sun to seep through the screen and shed some warmth on her skin. She marinated over the meeting she'd just had with Hawkins chief of police, mulling over the awkwardness and the humor, and found her lips had curved into an amused half-smile. What a way to start her first day in town. She chuckled and closed the door, but not before sneakily glancing around the surrounding houses in hopes of catching the nosy neighbor who sent that dopey policeman out in the first place.


	3. A Lunchtime Interruption

It didn't take too long for Meg to get the hang of Hawkins. By the end of her first week, she realized it wasn't all that different from her own hometown back in Ohio. Suburban at the heart, rural in surroundings, and seemingly uneventful, Hawkins was like any other midwestern town. It was a far cry from her previous living arrangement in bustling Chicago, but she never felt like that was home anyway. She attributed that sense of belonging to a person, not a place. 

It wasn't until week three that she began seeing the hidden magic of the community. Neighbors would smile and wave as you strolled down the sidewalk. Kids raising money for their clubs would shout "CAR WASH!" and jump for joy when a mud-coated vehicle would pull into the parking lot. She even found herself retiring on the porch swing in the evenings just to watch the drowsy sun melt into the Indiana skyline. 

In no surprise at all, she was enjoying her time spent on the Vanderbilt farm. Though it had been several years since she'd worked on her own parents' farm, it was sort of like riding a bike. Or, in her case, like riding a horse. After meeting with a few local farmers, she was able to acquire some new livestock and get things set in motion. They all seemed to be nice enough, with the exception of crotchety Jack O'Dell. The man seemed completely thrown off by the idea of a woman working a farm by herself. 

"You'll need to find yourself some strapping young farmhands, little lady," he said with the slightest edge of a sneer tumbling out from under his bushy mustache. 

Meg rolled her eyes and grumbled, "I think I'll manage, Mr. O'Dell. Thank you for the chicks." 

While his condescending remark did frustrate her, she was well aware that there was some truth to it; a farm that size wasn't meant to be run by one person alone. Big Joe made it clear he and Peg were more than able to lend a hand, but Meg would just smile and decide to cross that bridge when they got to it. She thought of asking around the agriculture circuit (avoiding O'Dell at all costs, of course) and settled on putting up help wanted ads in the popular sites around town. 

"Thirty-seven years!" Joe Murray cried, throwing his hands in the air for emphasis. "Nearly four decades of meeting up here, and you assholes still can't decide what to eat?" 

A round of groans resounded throughout the booth, and Meg couldn't help but laugh at the collective looks of frustration. 

"Just because you never change your order doesn't mean we can't!" grunted Millard Kline, holding his cheaters up to his eyes to get a better look at the menu. His wife, Lucille, clicked her tongue and grabbed them out of his hands.

"Those are mine, darling. You left yours at home." 

Peg Murray snorted in laughter and said, "That's exactly why Big Joe never changes his order: he can't see the menu anymore!"

Meg had always loved Joey's parents. With her quirky personality and goose-like laugh, Peg was undeniably likable. She was petite and rail-thin, but her size did nothing to hold back her vivacious attitude. Big Joe liked to speak of her wild days of dancing on tables and hitchhiking cross-country, a lifetime that didn't seem too far off once you got to know her. And while Meg enjoyed her mother-in-law's crazy side, she was quite fond of her warm, nurturing tendencies, too. 

At first, Big Joe was intimidating. He outwardly appeared gruff and stoic, almost like an ex-boxer. His stance was guarded, much like his personality, and Meg was petrified that he wouldn't like her. Joey reassured her a thousand times that Big Joe was "all hat and no cattle" (whatever the hell that meant), that he would melt for her. 

"Pop always wanted a daughter," Joey had said, peeling the label off his beer bottle absentmindedly as they sat out on the patio of some dive bar they'd stumbled upon. "Fortunately, growing up I had about the same muscle mass as a girl, so he wasn't that far off." Once he earned an amused smile from Meg, he added, "He'll love ya, babe. You're just that good."

Meg marinated in the memory for a moment, trying not to forget the way Joey's eyes softened when he was telling the truth. He had been right, too; it wasn't long before she had Big Joe wrapped around her finger. They bonded over farm stories, baseball, and a common love of Elvis Presley. While sitting in that booth, watching as her in-laws squabbled playfully with their friends, Meg silently thanked Joey for placing them in her life. 

"Megs, what'll it be?" Big Joe asked, breaking Meg from her thoughts long enough for her to see the waitress standing near their booth. 

She glanced at the menu, suddenly realizing she hadn't really made up her mind, and hastily tried to browse the lunch portions. 

"Uh, let's see...how's about the club sandwich? Any good?" She addressed the group before her. 

"Everything's good at Benny's!" roared Big Joe, clearly a little impatient with hunger. He began collecting the menus as he told the server, "Give the girl a club sandwich and a slice of strawberry-rhubarb pie, would ya?" Meg smirked as he shot her a wink, knowing full well that he'd ordered her favorite dessert--only to be sampled by him later. 

The elders got to talking again, so Meg decided she'd take the opportunity to find the owner, Benny Hammond. She was hoping he would be alright with her posting one of her job ads in the restaurant. Excusing herself from the table, she made her way towards the dining bar and approached the line cook refilling salt and pepper shakers behind it. 

"Excuse me, I'm sorry to interrupt, but could I please speak with the owner? I had a question about posting something in the lobby," Meg asked the complacent-looking employee. 

The freckled young man adjusted his glasses, gave a nod, and called "Benny!" in a hoarse voice towards the kitchen. A gargantuan man strolled out from behind the kitchen window, a sight so comical that Meg wondered if the window was really that small or the man was really that big. He looked at the line cook with a furrowed brow, almost as if he was irritated. 

"What's with the yelling, Keith? I'm four feet away."

Unaffected, Keith pointed to Meg and went back to his mundane task. Benny's eyes met Meg's, and she gave him a bright smile. He cleared his throat nervously. 

"Can I help you, ma'am?"

"Hi, yes. Thank you for your time," Meg replied, holding out her hand in greeting. "My name's Meg Murray. I just moved to town and was looking for some help on my family's farm. I wondered if it was alright for me to post a help wanted ad in your lobby."

Benny, clearly not immune to the charm of a pretty woman, nodded while trying to inconspicuously check Meg out. 

"Uh, yeah. Of course. Go right ahead," the man replied, shaking her small hand. "What kind of farm you running?"

"Primarily cattle, but I've already got some chickens in the works. Some pigs, eventually. I live on the Vanderbilt farm, the Murrays' property."

Benny grinned and leaned on the counter. "Big Joe's finally handing over the reigns, huh?"

"Not without a little kicking and screaming," Meg joked as the bell above the entrance jingled to signal the diner's latest patron. In walked that dopey Chief Hopper, looking a little worse for wear. His sunglasses remained untouched on his face and his gait seemed a little less than confident. Unimpressed with his state, Meg turned back to Benny.

"Who's your meat supplier? I'm looking to build a clientele, and I bet I'd be a hell of a lot cheaper than most," she asked curiously. 

"A wholesale distributor, but ya know, I'd be interested in seeing what you've got to offer," Benny replied with a hint of flirtation in his tone. Meg giggled and glanced at the floor for a moment when a pair of two torn-up boots came into view. She followed their legs all the way up to the face of their owner. 

"Morning, Benny. Ms. Murray," Jim grunted, pulling off his hat and setting it on the bar top. 

Benny's expression did nothing to hide his dissent and everything to match his statement. 

"Jesus, Jim. You look like you crawled out of an ash tray. Long night?" 

"Sure know how to make a girl feel special, Ben," Jim replied huskily as he took a seat on the stool. Avoiding his friend's question, he looked to a slightly uncomfortable-looking Meg, then back to Benny. "Was I interrupting something?"

His question had a slight bitterness to it that Meg did not understand nor approve of. Where did this guy get off? Rolling into public--on shift, no less--smelling like the town watering hole and looking like he'd been living out of a car, then barging into a conversation he had no part of? Meg felt more than a little huffy at his audacity. Back where she came from, that kind of rudeness wasn't tolerated.

Before Benny could respond, a fire-eyed Meg shot, "Yes, actually. We were discussing some business before you graced us with your presence."

Jim didn't quite register Meg's frustration as he turned over his empty coffee mug and started to unravel the silverware from his napkin. 

"The usual, if you would, my friend," he told Benny casually, wincing a bit at the sound of the fork and spoon clanking together. "The greasier, the better." 

With a cocked brow, Benny looked from his unwitting buddy to the clearly perturbed woman before him, and slung a towel over his shoulder. He smiled at Meg and jabbed a thumb towards the kitchen.

"Duty calls, I'm afraid. Those Onestos don't cook themselves." He paused a moment, almost as if mulling something over in his mind before speaking, then asked, "Say, uh...how's about we finish this conversation over dinner sometime?" 

Now Jim was alert. From under the concealment of his shades, he peered up at Benny in mild interest, then looked to Meg for her response. Surely the cook wasn't trying to pick up this chick. He barely knew her! And she was recently widowed! For someone as fucked up as he was, even Jim felt like the act was in poor taste. 

Meg stiffened immediately at the offer, those notorious prickles of panic burning on the back of her neck like tattoo needles. Suddenly it occurred to her: this was the first time someone had hit on her since Joey had passed. This Benny guy seemed very friendly, and sure, it was most likely just for business. So why did it make her sweat? Throw that on top of feeling the Chief's awkward stare from a few feet away and it made for an all-around uncomfortable experience.

"I'm more of a breakfast type gal," Meg fumbled, hoping not to hurt the man's feelings while being as direct as possible. "Once I get some more livestock secured, I'll come in and we can discuss it over a cup of coffee."

Thankfully, Benny didn't seem put out by her counteroffer. He nodded and gave her an earnest smile. 

"Sounds good to me."

"I appreciate your consideration. And for letting me post my flyer," Meg added. "I better get back to my company. Nice to meet ya, Mr. Hammond."

"Likewise, and it's Benny. Enjoy your lunch," he replied as Meg began to walk away. She started past Jim and gave him a halfhearted two finger salute. 

"Chief."

"Have a nice day, Ms. Murray," came Jim's grunt of a retort. The two men watched her walk back to her place among the Murrays and the Klines before Jim swiveled on the bar stool and peeled off his sunglasses to look directly at Benny.

"Did I just walk in on you spitting game at Joey Murray's widow?" He questioned in a quiet, incredulous tone. 

Benny's eyes widened at Jim's words. "What--wait, that's Joey's wife?" He shot another look over at her before running a hand over his face in regret. "Shit, man. I had no idea."

"Who did you think she was?" 

"I don't know! I didn't put two and two together, I guess," Benny groaned, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. After a moment's thought, he narrowed his gaze at Jim. "Clearly you two have been acquainted already." 

Jim shrugged as one of the waitresses poured him a cup of steaming black coffee. "Yeah, we met when she first got to town. I helped her move some of her furniture. Ya know, like a Good Samaritan."

To his credit, Benny did look very ashamed of his ill-timed action; the man had poor luck in relationships anyhow, so putting himself out there was a feat he seldom attempted. He and Jim had known each other for many years, and Jim would be the first to attest to his buddy's secretly big heart. He knew that Benny wouldn't have tried anything on Meg Murray if he was aware of the situation.

"Hey," Jim said, breaking the cook from his embarrassment. "Don't sweat it. She's cute. I get it." 

Benny returned a halfhearted smile and replied, "Another swing and a miss from the great Hambino."

Jim cringed in good nature at the title and waved his pal off. "Go make my food, will ya? I've got a shift in an hour."

As Benny made his way back to the kitchen, Jim took a swig of his coffee and ran his large hand over his beard pensively, his eyes drifting over to the Murrays' table. Meg sat right beside Big Joe, who had an arm around her shoulders affectionately as he spun a story to his company. The woman was laughing robustly at whatever he was saying, her white teeth bared and her warm laughter filling the space like hot cocoa in your favorite mug. She did have something special about her, that much was true. 

After scarfing down his breakfast (or rather brunch, at this point) and dishing some half-assed flirtation at the mildly attractive young waitress, Jim bid Benny farewell and was about to head out when he noticed an emerald green bag hanging off the chair where Meg Murray had been dining thirty minutes prior. He debated pretending that he hadn't seen it, moving on with his already lackluster day, but something led him to do the right thing and grab the tote from the chair. 

Just before he could get to his Blazer, Jim caught sight of Meg's yellow truck pulling up. She got out and was about to head back into the diner when he called out to her.

"Hey, did ya lose somethin'?" 

Meg gave him a hard look before noticing the bag dangling from the chief's sizable fist. She sighed with a small smile as she met him halfway between their vehicles. 

"Sometimes I swear I've got straw for brains," she muttered with a slight hint of frustration in her tone, accepting the bag from him. "Thank you."

"Don't mention it," he replied. Meg was about to walk away when he added, "Hey, about my boy Benny...go easy on the guy."

Confusion etched itself on Meg's face in the form of a furrowed brow and downturned mouth. 

"What do you mean?"

"He's a stand-up guy, and he doesn't normally put himself out there like that. He didn't mean anything by it." 

"By what exactly?" 

"You know...the whole asking you out thing."

Now Meg's right hand had found her hip as she cocked it to the side, a defense look that Jim knew all too well in the world of women. His palms had started to sweat, so he reached into his back pocket for his cigarettes to diffuse the tension. 

"So you're defending him because you thought, in my emotional fragility as a widow, I was offended by his proposition." Her sentence ended with a cock of one eyebrow, challenging him in a way he did not see coming. 

Jim stared at her long and hard, cig wedged between the taut line of his lips, and suddenly realized that somewhere along this conversation he had pissed her off. She looked like someone had dropped a house on her sister! He was no stranger to this kind of reaction from a lady; of course, it was typically after he had dropped off the earth instead of making that phone call he'd promised post-coitus. It bugged him that a girl this pretty was this mad at him without having seen her naked first. 

"Okay, you're the one making assumptions here, sweetheart. Not me," he replied, putting up a hand defensively while the other searched the breast pocket of his shirt for a light. Despite the fire that blazed in her wide eyes at the unintentionally condescending title he'd thrown her, he continued. "All I'm trying to say is that if he had known what you were going through, he wouldn't have made a move, alright? He means well."

Meg slung her bag over her shoulder and crossed her arms, less in defiance and more in surrender. Her eyes fluttered closed for a moment, almost as if she were centering herself, then she let out the breath she appeared to be holding onto. 

"I understand what you're trying to do. I'm sorry for getting so worked up. I'm still having a hard time navigating all...this...," she gestured by swirling her hands in chaotic circles. "I don't think any less of your friend. Believe me. I'm just one big mess right now." 

Lighting his smoke and taking a quick drag, Jim nodded as the smoke left his body along with the pent-up irritability from moments ago. Once again, he saw something in her demeanor that he empathized with on a very real level. It made him feel both uncomfortable and affirmed at the same time. 

"Well, hey. Sorry about the outburst. And thanks for my bag. If your friend asks, let him know I'm not put off. It's all good," Meg finished, turning back towards her truck. "Have a nice day, Chief."

Jim nodded. "You too. Drive safe." He internally cringed at that last line, hating that he had awkwardly slipped into Cliche Asshole Cop. Sure, he might have had the asshole thing down-pat but he usually saved the officer platitudes for random strangers he dealt with on the job. What was it about this chick that had him acting like such an idiot? Perhaps it was the fact that she was most likely the only person in this godforsaken town that didn't know how fucked up he truly was (as long as no one had let her in on the matter yet). 

"Hey Hop," came a voice from behind the diner. Jim looked over his shoulder to see his leggy waitress from earlier, standing by the Staff Only door and smoking a cigarette seductively. "I never got to ask if you were happy with your service."

Looking back to see Meg's truck already heading down the road, Jim gave a sigh before turning back to the girl. 

"My gratuity wasn't enough of an indication?" 

Smoke trailed from her nostrils as she shook her permed locks playfully. "I was hoping for a bigger tip...."

Jim chuckled low in his chest, knowing full well that this kid was writing a check her ass couldn't cash. Normally, he would have no problem indulging the girl; maybe he'd toss a goofy line or, if he had enough booze in his system, play a little tonsil hockey. But today he surprisingly wasn't feeling it. 

"Maybe next time, sweetheart." And he ducked into his truck and drove off before he could register the look of disappointment on the waitress' makeup-caked face.


End file.
